San Francisco: The Complete Trilogy Page 3

  Christiana held her breath and strained her ears, trying to figure out where Lillian and the man were. She couldn’t hear anything. She stood and took a few steps, sticking to the dimmest areas.

  When she reached the bar, she stopped. She could keep going straight, paralleling the velvet wall, until she reached the far corner where her boots and escape hole were.

  Or she could sneak down the stairs and see what was on the first floor.

  And when she got caught? What would happen then?

  She had a right to be here—they were in the wrong. Though she didn’t look very official standing there in her socks.

  Looking down, she wiggled her toes. The reflective band on her upper arm caught the light, and Christiana cursed. Without thinking, she stripped off her jacket. Rolling it into a ball, she darted across the floor, running on the balls of her feet, slipping slightly against the smooth wood. She dropped to her knees and lifted the curtain where she thought the hole was. She was only off by a few feet. She knee-walked over there and stuffed the jacket through the hole where it joined her clipboard, backpack, and hardhat. After a moment’s consideration, she stuffed her boots through too.

  Decision time.

  Go or stay.

  Be safe, or be adventurous.

  In Alice’s story, the trip down the rabbit hole had been one-way. Alice had to go through the rest of Wonderland to find her way home.

  Christiana lowered the curtain and pushed to her feet.

  The first floor was just as magnificent as the second, though there was far less open space here.

  When people entered through the narrow back door, they’d be looking down the long hallway to the grand staircase. The hallway was flanked by two large rooms, which she knew from the plans had originally been an office for cannery management and a locker room for workers. The rooms still existed, though they looked freshly built, and there was just the faintest scent of fresh paint.

  To one side of the staircase was yet another bar, while the opposite side had duplicates of some of the equipment from upstairs—a St. Andrew’s Cross, a spanking bench, a person-sized birdcage—but no seating areas.

  It was easier to see on this floor. Evenly spaced iron fixtures supported Edison bulbs, but with the lower ceiling height and cream-colored walls, the dim bulbs provided better illumination. Added to that there were clusters of iron candelabras with fat white pillar candles. The walls of the hallway were lined with black candleholders and what had to be five hundred candles. It would be magical when they were all lit.

  All that light meant there weren’t many places to hide. Christiana crouched on the stairs in a shadowy spot and looked at the bar. She could duck back there, but a bartender would show up eventually.

  Christiana’s fingers tangled together in an anxious knot. She couldn’t just stay here waiting to be discovered. She had to either find a place to hide down here or go back upstairs and return to her hiding place behind the velvet curtain.

  But there was a third option, one that didn’t involve hiding. It was probably a terrible idea. No, it wasn’t probably a terrible idea. It was objectively stupid and dangerous. But if she were being honest, she’d been half planning this since she heard Lillian talking.

  The doors to the former office and locker room were dark-stained wood, and a square plaque on one door showed the stylized image of a kneeling figure. The plaque on the other door showed a standing figure.

  Instead of men’s and women’s locker rooms, this place had rooms for subs and Masters. Holding her breath, Christiana dashed to the door with the kneeling figure. She turned the handle and eased the door open, slipping in.

  What she’d assumed would be a bathroom was so much more. The room was elegant in the extreme, with iron and crystal chandeliers and sconces, plush taupe rugs, and dark wood mission-style furniture padded with pillows and cushions in a rainbow of neutral tones—from natural white to warm gray and chocolaty brown. Wooden lockers lined one wall, opposite an equally long vanity counter, above which framed mirrors reflected the room. On one of the short walls was another vanity area, this one set with three vessel sinks of amber glass. Discreet doors on either end of the vanity led to small toilet rooms.

  She took a moment to look at the toilets and try to figure out if they were hooked up to the sewage system, or if they were just dumping into the bay. Christiana was ready to call 911 and say whatever she needed to in order get this whole place shut down—it would be just like rich people to assume they could just dump waste into the bay. She test flushed the toilet and watched as a port in the bottom of the bowl opened, allowing the water to drain down. It was similar to the way an airplane toilet flushed.

  It was a high-end composting toilet.

  Christiana sat back, newly stunned by what a huge undertaking this operation was. Why would they bother doing this? Surely whoever had picked this spot knew the warehouse was about to be destroyed.

  Christiana slipped out of the bathroom, only then realizing that flushing the toilet would have made noise, and if anyone was nearby they might come investigating. There wasn’t anywhere to hide in here, except the two small toilet rooms.

  She looked around, heart thumping, and saw it. Opposite the wall with sinks, a folding wooden screen partially obscured a rack of clothes—the ones Lillian had mentioned.

  Clothes that would allow her to blend in, pretend she should be here.

  This is such a bad idea.

  This is an adventure!

  Her inner voice seemed to be having a crisis.

  Christiana darted across the dressing room, gaze on the door in case it started to open. She nearly tripped over a small ottoman, but managed to skirt it. She slid behind the screen and waited. If someone came in, she’d wait until they were away from the door and then slide around the back of the screen and run for it.

  No one came.

  Christiana looked up at the freestanding clothing rack. As Lillian had described, there was a variety of skimpy garments and lingerie sets, each new with tags and all in neutral and earth tones. They were sorted by size, discreet tag markers on the bar distinguishing one from the other.

  Christiana waited there, sure that any moment now someone would come in and find her. But time passed and the door remained closed. She eased her phone out of her pocket, powered it on, and checked the screen. It had only been forty-five minutes since she’d texted her friend. It felt like hours had passed. Lillian had mentioned it being an hour before they expected people to arrive. How long ago had that been?

  Christiana looked at garments again. Scooting along the floor, she slid to the size sixes and brushed her fingers along the bottoms of the soft, silky garments. There was a brushed cotton negligee, the color a deep, earthy golden-brown that Christiana couldn’t stop staring at.

  Christiana had been pudgy in her youth, but once she’d gone to college and moved away from her mother’s delicious cooking, she’d slimmed down. Rather than feeling skinny and sexy the way she’d assumed she would, most of the time she felt scrawny and plain.

  She fingered the hem. Was she seriously considering stealing the negligee and staying? What if everyone who came here knew everyone else? Could she just stay and watch, or would she be expected to put herself on display? She certainly wasn’t stupid enough to do anything.

  But she wanted to watch. She wanted to pretend—a wallflower Cinderella who stayed in the shadows and slipped out well before midnight.

  This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. She knew, with a deep conviction, that what she saw here tonight would be enough to fuel her fantasies for years.

  She closed her eyes. This was utter madness. She wasn’t Alice, chasing the white rabbit into Wonderland. She was the Mad Hatter, throwing herself a tea party and justifying her own lunacy by insisting that “we’re all mad here.”

  The same lunacy—call it a desire for adventure, a streak of recklessness, or temporary insanity—that had driven her to bust through the wall gripped her once more. Sh
e stood and pulled the lovely negligée off the hanger. Moving fast, she stripped off her clothes, down to her beige panties and bra. She pulled the negligee over her head. It fell to just above her knee, the waist nipping in to give it a beautiful silhouette.

  While the bottom was almost modest, the top was skimpy. The spaghetti straps held up a draped bodice that came down far lower than she’d thought. There wasn’t a way to adjust the straps, and most of her sensible bra was showing. Before she had time to freak out, Christiana reached back and undid her bra, pulling the straps off and then sliding it out from under the negligee. Balling all her clothes up, including the bra, she took them to the locker furthest from the door.

  The doors had keypads, and after she stuffed the clothes in, she was able to create her own code and lock it. The last thing she wanted was someone to stumble across a chambray work shirt with the Caltrans logo on it and start asking questions.

  Christiana turned to the mirrors, bracing herself. She was sure she was going to look stupid. Sure that the sight of her reflection would be the dash of ice water that would snap her into reality.

  A slim, mysterious-looking woman stared back at her.

  The negligée fell low on her breasts, the fabric seeming to just cover her nipples, the draped bodice making her B-cup chest seem full and lush. The back was cut lower than the front. Starting at her sides, it plunged sharply, exposing her from her neck all the way to the small of her back. The straps crossed in the back, the thin ropes of fabric shades lighter than her brown skin.

  Her eyes were large and dark. Normally their brown color was boring, but now they seemed deep and mysterious. Her hair, also brown and straight as rain, fell down her back in a simple braid. Her cheekbones, a gift from her Mexican abuela, along with her dark hair and eyes, seemed almost regal. Normally she thought of herself as plain. Her features were unremarkable—her upper lip lacked that cute Cupid’s bow dip, her nose was too big. She wasn’t delicate enough to be refined, nor bold-featured enough to be interesting.

  But here, and now, she was something more. Something better.

  Woven boxes and glass jars of toiletries had been left out on the vanity. Christiana pulled the tie off the bottom of her braid and used a comb to brush her hair, smoothing the pieces that had been pulled loose by her helmet. After a moment’s consideration, she brushed some gel into her hair, making sure it would stay flat. The almost severe hairstyle—slicked back from her face—made her look dramatic and mysterious. She used the tie to create a ponytail at the nape of her neck, then took a piece of hair and wrapped it around the elastic band, securing it with a bobby pin.

  Aware that the clock was ticking, and that at any moment she could be discovered, she dashed to the sink, quickly washing her hands, face, and underarms. Back to the vanity, and now she grabbed a travel-size deodorant and slicked some on. She would have killed for some makeup. Since Lillian, who seemed to be the person who set this up, seemed to have thought of everything else, Christiana flipped open the tops of several boxes until she found one full of sample sizes of makeup.

  “Lillian comes through again.” Christiana was well aware of how odd this was, talking about a woman she’d never met and only eavesdropped on as if they were longtime friends.

  She found a small brown eyeliner and tiny pot of pale gold eye shadow. She brushed on the eye shadow, applying it only to her lids and the inside corners of her eyes. Then she lined her upper lid, and the waterline of her lower lid, with the pencil. When she was done, she dug around for a tiny mascara. She was looking at lipgloss options when she heard voices coming from outside.

  For a moment she’d forgotten what she was doing, and where she was. She’d been focused on primping, as if she were getting ready for a nice night out on the town. Which was laughable, since she had no dating life to speak of, only the occasional dinner out with Ginger or her other girlfriends, who were all living drastically more exciting lives than she was.

  Christiana raced for the screen, the makeup she’d used clenched in one hand. She dropped to her knees as quietly as she could. The door opened.

  “This is the submissives’ changing room. I want it checked every thirty minutes—the usual routine. Toilets, sinks, wipe down of all counters. Also check the supplies. There’s more of everything inside locker number 1. The code is 9999.” Lillian was giving instructions to what Christiana had to assume was the cleaning staff.

  She leaned back, turning her head so she could peer though the small gap between the edge of the screen and the wall. She got her first glimpse of Lillian—a beautiful dark-skinned woman whose thick black hair was pulled back in an intricate fishtail braid. She wore a strapless dress of undyed cotton and a heavy necklace made of beaten discs of gold. Together the heavy jewelry, raw-looking material, and elegant and refined features made her look like a model in a high fashion magazine spread. Lillian turned her head to listen to a question from one of the staff members, whom Christiana couldn’t see because they were hidden by the door. When Lillian turned, Christiana caught sight of her eyes, which were startling bright blue against her dark skin.

  “Offer assistance with dressing if asked, but remember, members should treat you with respect. They’re not allowed to touch or abuse you. That includes those of you who will be part of the buffet display. Some of you have said you’re willing to be placed in bondage or on one of the devices if necessary. You know who you are. Now then, onto the bar.”

  The door closed, and Christiana blew out a long breath. If they’d walked in, they would have seen her.

  What the hell are you doing?

  What would happen when she was discovered? If she’d been wearing her regular clothes, she could have confronted them, taken the position of authority. Christiana the public works engineering inspector had more right to be here than these people did—they were trespassers.

  Christiana the crazy woman wearing stolen lingerie had no right to be here.

  Anxiety gripped her, making her throat hurt and her stomach knot. She needed to get out of here. Christiana pushed to her feet, leaning her shoulders against the wall and taking deep breaths. Her fingers were trembling so badly that the makeup samples she’d used fell from her hand to clatter on the floor.

  Someone would have heard that. Someone would come.

  Christiana pressed both hands over her stomach, anticipation and fear making her lightheaded. She waited.

  And waited.

  No one came.

  Her jangling nerves were calming now that she hadn’t been discovered. She stepped out from behind the screen.

  As soon as she did, the door opened.

  A trio of people walked in, two women and a man. The man was Asian and slender, wearing an elegant pair of slacks and a dress shirt open at the throat. One woman was dark-haired, her lips glossy red, her skin pale. The door hadn’t even fully closed before she was unbuttoning her coat and stripping it off.

  “Black satin and lace? What happened to neutral tones?” The second woman was the one who spoke. She had medium brown hair cut in an A-line bob and large pink-framed glasses. She wore knee-high boots made of checked black and white leather, a short pink trench coat, and a tailored black dress with a standing white collar. She looked interesting and cool—someone who worked in marketing or advertising.

  The red-lipped woman turned in a circle and struck a pose. “Rules are an anathema to me.”

  The guy rolled his eyes and undid the buttons on his cuffs. “You’ll do whatever you want no matter what anyone says, Cheryl.”

  Cheryl chuckled and tossed her hair. “Excuse me, I always follow my Master’s orders.”

  “Mmhm.” The man stripped off his shirt and hung it over a hanger, placing it in the locker he’d selected.

  “You’re a brat and an exhibitionist,” Pink Glasses said.

  “And aren’t you glad I am?” Cheryl ran her hands down the sides of her body. She was wearing a demi-cup black bra and matching panties.

  Over that she had on a
strange leather object. Christiana, who had frozen in place when they walked in, didn’t know whether to call it jewelry or a garment. It started as a leather collar fastened around her neck. A thin piece of leather ran down from the front of the collar between her breasts, ending at her stomach, where it was attached to a narrow belt that bisected the expanse of pale skin exposed between the bottom of her bra and the top of her panties.

  That was all she’d been wearing under her coat. Christiana was a bit shocked that the woman had come wearing nothing but underwear and some sort of leather harness thing with a coat over the top.

  Christiana realized that reading about things like collars, harnesses, and wearing nothing but lingerie and a coat was very different than seeing it in person. If she was shocked by something so comparatively mild, how would she react to the other things she’d undoubtedly see tonight?

  “Besides,” Cheryl continued, “no one looks good in earth-tone neutrals. I mean, honestly, what was Mistress Phyllis thinking?”

  Pink Glasses had stripped off her jacket and dress, hanging them in a locker. Now she walked to a chair and sat down, reaching for the top of her boots. As she did, she caught sight of Christiana. For a moment, their gazes met. Christiana quickly looked away, heart in her throat.

  “Cheryl,” Pink Glasses said, “you can be a real bitch.”

  The other two turned, and Christiana felt their attention fall on her, like a weight pressing her down. Her heart was in her throat and her mouth was dry.

  “Oh fuck,” Cheryl said. “I’m sorry. You look lovely, but you have the coloring to carry it off. You should just ignore me.”

  Christiana darted a glance up. That was it? They weren’t going to ask who she was, or what she was doing here?

  “It’s fine,” Christiana replied, her voice low.

  The man laughed. “You should start begging me not to tell your Master.”

  “I’m sure he already has a list of reasons to spank me.” Cheryl cast another glance at Christiana. “I really am sorry.”